


How Close Am I To Losing You?

by t0bemadeofglass



Series: Mini Prompts [31]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, mission gone slightly wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0bemadeofglass/pseuds/t0bemadeofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint's comm goes down in the middle of a mission and Phil has a hard time coming to terms with all the things he's never told the agent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Close Am I To Losing You?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KCUrquhart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KCUrquhart/gifts).



> It's been way too long since I wrote any Phlint, so I'm back with this! It's to be read as a prequel to "Won't Waste A Minute Without You," but either can be read as a stand alone.   
> Title comes from the song "About Today" by The National, which is one of the most touching and gorgeously perfect songs. Ever.   
> Hope you enjoy!

“Damnit Barton, don’t you dare do this to me.”  Phil isn’t quite sure why he’s still speaking into the comm; they’ve been down for the past half an hour, which meant Barton was alone--completely alone--with a serial killer that had a certain fondness for cutting up pretty boys.  Not that Barton wasn’t more than able to take care of himself, but the thought puts Phil on edge.  No, more on edge--it propels him off in a spectacular fashion, twisting him around and around until he crash landed into the surface of the sun.  His heart is furiously beating against his chest, desperate to get out, to get down to the club that Clint had gotten into not two hours previous and pull him out of the field.  He swallows hard, trying to force himself to breathe as he continues to pace.  It’s a miracle he hasn’t worn out the floor yet, dug his way through the ground and into the core of the earth.  It’s a miracle he hasn’t completely lost his mind, too, but he tries not to think about that bit.  There isn’t much that makes Phil Coulson lose his cool, not Fury screaming at him, not the fire from a dozen or so mob hit men aimed at him, and certainly not some stupid, bull-headed blond archer except--.

“God damnit Barton,” he hisses.  “You better play this safe because if you get hurt I’ll never fucking forgive myself, and I’ll never forgive you.”  He’s far enough away from this crew that he doesn’t mind cursing.  He doesn’t want them to see him so disheveled because panic only breeds more panic.  He’s lucky they’ve all written Clint off as offline and therefore removed their comm pieces, leaving just Phil and the empty other line to spill his words to, as though he was in a confessional without a priest on the other side.  He hisses over at the agents scrambling to get the comm lines back up, demanding that they try harder.  “I’m not about to lose one of my best specialists because of this,” he growls.  It’s the first time they’ve ever seen him remotely lose his cool, and two of them share a wide-eyed glance before tapping away at their keyboards.  There’s no explanation for why the communication devices should be down, though they’ve been spotty for some time one of the men reminds Coulson.  It doesn’t help and certainly doesn’t win the man any points as Coulson shoots him his most deadly glare.  An actual squeak leaves the man’s mouth before he turns, flushed, back to his work, calling those at base to see if they have come up with any reason for why the sudden shortage in service.  

Coulson turns away, disappearing into the empty hall.  They’d rented out the whole floor of the small hotel for the privacy, wanting to control all of the external circumstances and provide Clint with a place he could bring the perpetrator back to if it came to it without worrying about putting other citizens in danger.  For now Coulson is just grateful for the silence, the loneliness that seeps into his bones at the thought that he can’t hear the man on the other side, and that Clint can’t hear him.  

“I’ll never forgive you if something happens, specialist,” he growls into the comm, thinking it’ll make him feel better if he can get it out, even if Clint can’t hear him.  “Barton.  Don't you dare do this to me.  You can pull out of this, can’t you?  I’ve seen you walk away from a mob fight with nothing but a scratch, talked you through infiltrating the Kremlin, and even had your back when you brought Nat on board.  You can do anything, can’t you?”  He sounds pathetic, even to his own ears, voice shaking by the time he reaches the end of it.  The fear finally starts to set in, harvesting his spirit and his strength to be used against him, turning his adrenaline to ice in his veins and courage to anxiety.  This is what he got for being so attached, he thinks as he leans up against the wall and lets himself slide down.  He buries his head in his hands as he thinks it over, all the time Clint spent cracking jokes from halfway across the city as Phil tried not to let the smile show in his voice, all the times they’d joked about going out for a beer so Clint could hear some of Phil’s better war stories.  He knew he should’ve taken the archer up on his offers, even the ones he was certain were jokes, knew it would only be too soon before something happened to throw a wrench in his plans.  He’d have thought it would be Nat, but the Russian wasn’t too interested, or maybe Fury would’ve thrown a fit about his best handler and one of his agents going out on a date (even though Phil was more than aware about the policy of inter-office dating, even interdepartmental dating.  He’d checked it three times after the first time Barton had asked him out, though Phil was certain it had been a joke.)

He never could have predicted that something would’ve actually happened to Barton, that he’d get hurt or--his heart really begins to race--killed.  

But he can’t be killed, he just can’t be dead.  Phil repeats the mantra over and over in his head, grinding his palms into his eyes as his last line of defense against the negativity.  He has to think of Barton’s strengths, his ability to think on his feet, to come back from every negative situation and find a positive one.  It’s how he ended up at Shield, it’s how he and Phil managed to meet and hit it off.  It’s what Phil loves most about him.  

“I swear to God if you ever get out of this I’ll go out with you,” he murmurs out of desperation.  “I’ll say yes the next time you ask.  Rules and regulations be damned, just live, Barton.  Just don’t be hurt, or dead, or I’ll never forgive myself.  Clint.”  His voice reaches a quiet whisper, the name ghosting over his tongue, never really said aloud.  He’s never wanted to give the wrong impression to Clint before, never wanted to let it show that he really did harbor something for the blond man, but in his head he’s always been Clint.  They’re always on a first name basis, it’s always the name that comes out Coulson’s lips when he’s alone with his hand in bed, eyes shut tight as he tries not to remember the times he’s watched Clint seduce mark after mark, men, women, Phil.  They’ve all fallen charm to his natural charisma, the light that catches in his blue eyes, the crook of his smile.  

Phil’s finding it hard to swallow, now, able to see Clint’s face so clearly in his mind’s eye it’s painful.  He’s too close to the situation, as Clint would say.  He can’t get a window, can’t get an objective view from this nearness.  It’s intoxicating and terrifying and--.

“Agent Coulson, you here?”

“Barton, god dammit where the fuck have you been?”  Relief crushes him and yet he finds the strength to look up, the voice in his ear sweeter than anything else he's ever heard.  

“No need to get your panties in a bundle, Coulson.  Perp’s down--you ready to come get me out of here?”

“Sending in a team now.”  He’s on his feet and rushing back into the room, snapping at the others to get going to collect the serial killer’s body.  “Everything okay?  What the hell happened to your comm?”

“No idea, sir, but everything’s just dandy on this end.”  

Phil can hear the way Clint’s eyes roll at the words, and it brings a smile to his lips.  Good.  Safe, healthy, assumed to be in one piece.  Good.  He can breathe once again.  “Don’t let it happen again, specialist.”

“Understood.  Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Wanna go have a beer?  I need something to get this bastard’s taste out of my mouth.

A pause.  “Just get back here and we’ll talk about it.”  He’ll say yes.  

 

Clint grins as he ends the conversation and takes a seat nearest the door, watching the bloodied body of the killer lying on the floor, spittle and snot and blood leaking from the man’s mouth and nose from where Clint pummeled him for getting too close.  His mind turns to the always working comm in his ear, leaning his head back in the chair and letting his grin widen, just glad to know for sure now that he’s not been the only one harboring a more than serious interest in his partner.  

 


End file.
